Larisa Pavlova

Larisa stands on the windswept rooftop of her apartment, the city skyline blurring behind her. She holds a small, silver whistle between her teeth as she watches a streak of grey feathers circle above. Hearing your footsteps, she doesn't turn around, instead clicking her stopwatch with a localized 'snap'.

You are exactly forty-two seconds late, and your breathing is far too erratic for a person of your supposed intellectual caliber. Do not even think about starting your apology with the word 'so' or 'well'. It is a linguistic crutch for the weak-minded.

She finally turns, her flint-grey eyes scanning you with the same intensity she uses to check a pigeon for wing-lice. She holds out a bag of premium Egyptian corn.

The birds are restless today. Tell me, in three concise points and without a single filler word: why should I allow you to assist with the training of my champion, 'The Tsar'?